The Wrong Side of Tracks
by grayseeker
Summary: Tracks takes a flight down memory lane in search of an errant Prime, and finds his past (and Rodimus!) full of surprises. Tracks/Rodimus, Tracks/Hot Rod, Arcee/Springer (mentioned).
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** For Starfire201. Many thanks to Ribbonelle for being a wonderful and patient beta on this, and even being willing to read multiple versions. Your comments and suggestions were invaluable.

* * *

 _I feel the moon hitting the blacktop_  
 _Just like a fuse, making the night so hot_  
 _Forget the truth until tomorrow_  
 _You'll be my Hughes, I'll be your Harlow_  
~ ZZ Ward, _Blue Eyes Blind_

Why Tyrest, of all places? It was a question that Tracks had been asking himself throughout his flight, but he was no closer to an answer now than he had been when he'd left Polyhex a half joor earlier. The only thing he knew for certain was that, apart from the Pits of Kaon, this was the last place he wanted to be. In fact he'd hoped never to lay optics on it again, but there it was straight ahead, a dark smudge on the shores of the Rust Sea.

He cut power to his flight engines, letting himself glide on the stiff breeze as he angled downward, senses on high alert for any signs of danger. His former home city had earned itself quite a reputation during these post-war years, and prudence dictated that he approach it silently, and with great caution.

He'd hoped it would look less familiar. Thousands of vorns of war and neglect should have softened its outlines, made it look less like the city he'd flown away from as a youngling with vows of never returning. Yet there were the docks, dark and empty but still recognizable; there were the old familiar streets, zig-zagging their way up the terraced slope. There was the temple, now with its roof caved in and its Well left open to the sky; there were the once-quaint shops and villas, with lights burning in just a few scattered windows, and there—off to the west and barely visible in corner of his optical field—was the old Inn.

Tracks had hoped it wouldn't be there. That it had, perhaps, been bombed out of existence, or that the sea might have risen up and swept it from its cliffside perch, but no. It looked every bit as haunted as it probably was, with its blank windows staring sightlessly across the waves toward Altihex. He dragged his attention away from it, and to the matter at hand. This wasn't the time to wallow in some masochistic trip down memory lane.

He was here to locate an errant Prime, and, with luck, talk some sense into him, much as Tracks doubted he was really the right mech for the job. Interventions weren't exactly in his wheelhouse, but Arcee had seemed desperate, and Tracks's spark, contrary to popular opinion, did harbor a few small shreds of chivalry. Besides, her call had gotten him out of a social situation that had rapidly been turning sticky, and not in the good way.

It wasn't that he didn't like Gyro. It was hard _not_ to like Gyro, who, in spite of being a distant relation of Springer's, was gracious, easy to talk to, and had a wonderful sense of humor. He was handsome, taking obvious pride in his appearance, and as an added bonus, was just tall enough to dip Tracks when they danced together. Their first two dates had been spent enjoying Polyhex's nightlife and trading stories about their pasts. Tracks had had to be careful about which particular stories _he_ chose to share, but he enjoyed hearing Gyro talk about his wartime adventures patrolling the borders of Iacon against Decepticon invaders.

Tonight, however, had been their _third_ date, the one where you're supposed to kiss. Gyro had gone all out for it, too, taking Tracks to the newly opened Grand Ballroom at the Polyhex Ritz. It was every bit as, well… ritzy as one might expect, with great music, an overflowing assortment of edible and drinkable delicacies, and Cybertronian glitterati as far as the optic could scan.

Normally, Tracks would have been in heaven, and they _had_ had a good time, dining, dancing and rubbing shoulder assemblies with a celebrity or two, and many more who were hoping to be mistaken as such, yet throughout the evening Tracks' mind had kept circling back to the impending kiss. He kept telling himself there was absolutely no reason why he _shouldn't_ want to kiss Gyro, starting with the fact that he'd paid for all this, and ending with the fact that his lips looked so inviting, especially when he smiled. Each time the opportunity arose, however, Tracks found himself turning to the side or coming up with some excuse.

Eventually, they'd drifted out onto the ballroom's broad, sweeping balcony. There were just a few couples there, some swaying to the soft strains of music coming from within the ballroom, while others sat together in the shadows of the crystalline arbor, lost in intimate conversation. Gyro led the way over to the balcony railing and they stood leaning against it, gazing out across the Rust Sea.

It was like a scene from a movie. Cybertron's new moons, though still under construction, bathed the sea in a delicate sheen, and the wind and the stars beckoned with promises of flight. Tracks' chest tightened around a sudden ache of recollection, and Gyro, who had been telling an amusing story about a prank that a flightmate of his had once played on Springer when they were younglings, suddenly fell silent. Tracks tensed in spite of himself as the other's gaze settled on him.

"Tracks," Gyro said quietly, "what are you thinking?"

Tracks realized that Gyro had noticed the shift in his mood, and he seemed sincerely interested in knowing what had caused it. Hot Rod would never have noticed something like that. He would have just kept talking, and he wouldn't be waiting this patiently to hear what Tracks had to say. More to the point, Tracks reminded himself, Hot Rod no longer existed. He was Rodimus Prime now, having been transformed by the Matrix into what was essentially a different person.

"Nothing much," Tracks replied, trying to sound casual. "Just enjoying the view."

Gyro placed a hand on the railing next to his. "Tracks," he said, "I just wanted to say that I like you—a lot. It's the first time I've felt anything since Firewhirl was shot down, and that was a deca-orn ago. I don't want to put pressure on you, but… well, I wanted you to know how I feel."

Tracks stared at him. It felt as if time had come to a standstill, and his voice, along with every joint in his frame, seemed frozen. This was it, he thought. This was where he was supposed to lean in and kiss Gyro, or at least say something, but nothing was coming to mind. He cleared his vocalizer.

"I… could use another drink," he finally managed to blurt. It was inane, but at least he was talking. "How about I treat us to the next round? You've paid for everything so far."

He moved to bolt for the safety of the bar, but Gyro stopped him with a hand on his arm. "I already told you that tonight's on me," he said with a weak smile. "You can buy the drinks next time."

He headed for the bar. Tracks stared after him, mentally cursing himself. Gyro was everything he _should_ want, and it wasn't as if Tracks didn't find him attractive. It was just… it was just…

 _You've got to stop carrying that flame,_ Raoul's voice echoed in his mind. It was what he'd said to Tracks during their most recent comm chat. _You have to give some other guy a fighting chance._ Raoul was right, of course. Even if being married had turned him into an insufferable know-it-all where it came to matters of the heart, or spark, he _was_ right.

 _Hot Rod wouldn't take me to a place like this_ , Tracks reminded himself. _He'd point me toward the chill unit in his galley and tell me to get my own drink_. Yet when the next breath of sea wind brushed his face, it stirred potent memories of racing along a rain-slicked coastal highway with the Atlantic wind scouring his flanks. His train of thought collapsed into the recollection of a wild chase across wet sand followed by a swift pounce, the one that had taken him down and pinned him, strutless, beneath a warm, solid weight and laughing azure optics. That first kiss had burned his lips, tasting of salt wind and wildness, and it had made him forget everything but the hypnotic throb of their two engines meshing into one rhythm.

His comlink buzzed, making him jump, and he felt a twinge of worry when he recognized Arcee's callsig, and the fact that she was calling on a secure frequency. "'Cee?" he said, answering. "What's up?"

"Tracks, are you busy?"

"Um… not really," Tracks answered, feeling a twinge of guilt when he saw Gyro coming back with their drinks. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know," she said. "I need a favor, but I don't want to say more than that over comlink."

"Is it an emergency?" Tracks asked, and flinched inwardly when he realized how this would probably sound to his date.

"I _hope_ not," Arcee replied, "but do you think you could meet me in breem or so?"

"Uh…" Tracks glanced at Gyro, who had paused, drinks in hand, a few steps away. "All right," he said heavily, "I'm sending my location coordinates."

"I'll be right over," Arcee said. She cut the channel, and Tracks turned to Gyro, who was gazing at him sadly.

"That wasn't what it sounded like," Tracks said. "That really was a friend of mine calling with an emergency."

Gyro gave a slow shake of his head. "You could have just said how you felt."

"I…" Tracks glanced away. "Gyro, I'm sorry, I'm just…" _Hung up on a mech who no longer exists_ , he scolded himself.

"Yeah, I can tell." Gyro handed the drinks to Tracks and leaped into the air, transforming into his chopper mode as he did so. "Just do the next guy a favor and be honest." He took off into the night sky, leaving Tracks holding the drinks.

o-0-o-0-o

Arcee was waiting when Tracks emerged from the Ritz, her slender frame dwarfed by the towering frond-crystals that grew on each side of the grand entrance.

"You were on a _date_?" she said accusingly. "Why didn't you say so?"

"Uhh… because you said this was an emergency?"

"Who was it with? Was it one of the guys I set you up with? Was it Gyro?"

"Does it matter?"

"It was, wasn't it?" She set her fists on her hips. "Look, I'll talk to him and tell him it was a real emergency, so he doesn't think you just—"

"I _did_ just," Tracks interrupted. "Your call simply came at an opportune moment."

"But…" Arcee frowned. "He's a great guy, and I think he really likes you. If you keep hurting our friends, I'm going to stop setting you up."

That was an empty threat, and they both knew it. Arcee loved playing matchmaker, and Springer, her ever-jealous Conjunx-to-be, was more than supportive where it came to changing the relationship status of some of their more handsome, unattached friends.

"This will be the last time, I promise," Tracks said. "How about you tell me what the emergency is?" Judging by Arcee's use of the word 'our' in reference to her friends, he gathered that it didn't involve her having called off her upcoming bonding ceremony with Springer, which was a shame. Tracks had never cared for the loudmouthed chopper mech, and he especially didn't like the way Springer barked orders at Arcee and treated her like his personal servant. But love, as they said, was dim of optic, something that Tracks supposed he knew better than anyone.

"I can't talk about it here," Arcee replied. She looped an arm through his—a move that would have put her prospective mate in fits, had he been there—and drew him down the steps, along the path that led through the hotel's manicured gardens, and out onto the walkway that edged the shorefront. There were only a few other mechs and femmes here, mostly in pairs. Arcee tugged him over to the observation railing and leaned against it, her arm still linked with his. To a casual observer, they would seem like any other couple admiring the view.

 _It's Rodimus_ , she said without preamble, using a secure comm line that was, Tracks knew, reserved for high-ranking government officials.

 _Rodimus?_ he echoed, once the security protocols had granted him limited access. _What about him?_ It seemed strange that the very mech who'd been on his mind so much this evening would turn out to be the topic of their conversation.

 _He's…_ Arcee paused. _This has to remain confidential, okay?_

 _Of course._ Tracks half-turned toward her, studying her troubled expression with a growing sense of unease. _Is he in some kind of danger?_

Arcee's gaze was focused on the distant Hydrax Plateau, where a large interstellar space cruiser was settling in for a landing, its lights forming a misty halo in the haze of gasses that rose off the sea. _We've been trying to keep this quiet,_ she said at length, _but we might need to start looking for a new Prime._

 _What? But the Matrix—_

 _Chose him, yes, I know. But sometimes it chooses wrong, Tracks. We think his body might be rejecting it._

Cold fear invaded Track's chassis. _What does that mean, exactly?_

 _It's happened before,_ Arcee said. _First Aid found some ancient medical records of a Prime whose body rejected the Matrix. He went insane, and he had to be—_ she broke off. _Well, let's just say it didn't end well._

 _And you think that could be happening now?_

 _Ultra Magnus is seriously considering the possibility,_ Arcee said, _and I'm finding it harder and harder to disagree._

She then proceeded with a litany of behavior that, Tracks had to admit, did sound unprofessional, if not downright bizarre. On one occasion, when called upon to make a speech, Rodimus had ignored the text he'd been given and launched instead into a solo rendition of John Lennon's _Imagine_. On a diplomatic visit to one of the outer worlds of the Nebulon Empire, Rodimus had burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter upon witnessing the Nebulon high priests performing the sacred rite of _P'utna_ , which involved them climbing to the top of a pyramid on the morning of winter solstice and solemnly freezing their butt-cheeks to a statue of their goddess.

 _And then there was the time he ran away,_ Arcee concluded. _He lost the Matrix and it fell into Decepticon hands. He did eventually get it back, but…_ she vented a sigh. _He's been disappearing lately, and then showing up with unexplained dents and scratches. First Aid says it looks like he's been getting in fights, but Rodimus won't talk about it. I'm so worried, Tracks._

 _I had no idea._

 _We've been trying to keep it quiet. But now…_ she drew a datapad from her subspace and handed it to Tracks. _He was supposed to make a speech at tonight's grand opening gala for the Cybertronian War Heroes Memorial. It's been on his calendar for at least a decaorn, yet he didn't show up. When we went around to his office, we found this._

Tracks activated the datapad and a stylus-written page appeared, covered in a familiar, sprawling penmanship:

 _Sorry I have to miss tonight's shindig._  
 _Stuff came up._  
 _Kup can give speech._  
 _~R_

 _Maybe something did come up,_ Tracks suggested. _Something that was more urgent?_

 _I wish I could believe that,_ Arcee said. _But if it really is that urgent, he should be telling us about it, not just gallivanting off on his own._

Tracks had to agree that she had a point. He didn't want to believe what she was saying, in fact he didn't even want to _think_ about it. He'd worked so hard to accept things as they were, to move on. Now it might all be for nothing.

 _What can I do?_ he asked finally.

Arcee drummed the fingers of her free hand against the railing. _I've tried talking to him,_ she said. _So have Kup and Ultra Magnus. I know he used to hang out with you, before. He used to…_ she hesitated, her optic ridges pulling into a delicate frown, _he used to_ share _things with you. Things he wouldn't share with me._

 _He did?_ Tracks was surprised. He'd considered Hot Rod a friend, and—on that one brief, glorious morning when he'd woken on a New England beach with sand clogging his vents and Hot Rod draped against him like an overheated blanket— had hoped their relationship might become something more. But that had been a lifetime ago.

 _He's very private, in his own way,_ Arcee said. _You might have noticed that he doesn't open up to many people. Well,_ she added with a wan smile, _he never opened up to me._

 _You had feelings for him,_ Tracks said. He'd always suspected as much, and prior to that incredible night on the beach, had assumed Hot Rod felt the same way about her.

"It wasn't pathetically obvious?" Arcee asked aloud.

"Well, I wouldn't say pathetically," Tracks said teasingly, and was pleased to see her give a faint smile. "I was surprised that the two of you didn't get together after the war ended. You seemed the perfect match."

"Well, I guess we weren't as perfect as everyone thought," Arcee said. "But it worked out for the best," she added, brightening. "I have Springer now."

"Right." Because when you can't bond with a Prime, the logical second choice is to graft yourself onto the nearest ill-mannered boor.

"He's a good mech!" Arcee flared, as if somehow sensing his thoughts. "You just don't know him like I do."

"I'll take your word on that."

Arcee didn't withdraw her arm, but he could feel defensive anger surging through her field. He sighed, and patted her hand. _I'll talk to Rodimus,_ he promised, switching back to the secure channel. _I can't guarantee that he'll listen, but I'll do my best._

"Thanks." Arcee's features relaxed just fractionally, and she gave his arm a squeeze. "You're a good friend, Tracks. I know this isn't your fault."

"Not my fault?" Tracks echoed. _Now_ what were they talking about?

Arcee just smiled. "I have to get back. Ultra Magnus will be returning from Earth, and if Kup's giving that address, someone's eventually going to have to interrupt him."

"Might as well be you," Tracks agreed.

He was still pondering her remark as he watched her speed away, her taillights fading in the darkness. _What_ wasn't his fault? The fact that she'd chosen a clod like Springer? No, surely she couldn't mean _that_. She seemed genuinely smitten with him, and amazingly tolerant of his various shortcomings.

He pushed back from the railing with a sigh. There was probably no figuring it out, so he might as well turn his attention to other mysteries. A call to Rodimus' comm line yielded no results. Tracks hadn't really expected it to, but he felt he had to try the obvious methods of contacting him first. The next step was a visit to his penthouse apartment. Tracks bypassed the concierge service and simply flew up to the roof. The lights were on inside, but a glance through the apartment's massive, crystallane windows was enough to tell him that there was no one home. What was more, one of the doors was slightly ajar.

Tracks debated with himself. Entering would be a violation of Rodimus' privacy, but then again, if he really was in some kind of trouble, and Tracks _didn't_ go in, he might miss a vital clue that could have saved him. Finally, pushing his doubts aside, he let himself in.

Rodimus' living quarters were nothing like Hot Rod's had been. They were, of course, much fancier, but the appearance of a bomb having recently detonated inside them was also notably missing. Tracks wondered if it meant that Rodimus didn't live here full-time, or perhaps he employed a cleaning service that was actually capable of keeping up with his mess.

 _Or maybe he's just tidier these days_ , Tracks thought with a pang. Wasn't it possible that Rodimus had simply, well… grown up? Like Raoul, who no longer needed Tracks' guidance or protection. He now ran a successful dance program for New York street youth, and he and his mate were now even talking about adopting a kid of their own. Tracks was proud of him, but it had all happened so fast, and he couldn't suppress a certain forlorn feeling whenever he thought about him.

Of course, it had been different with Hot Rod. He'd never thought of himself as Hot Rod's surrogate creator, but more as a friend and perhaps a mentor. Right up until the day that Hot Rod had turned to him with that certain wicked glint in his optics, Tracks' spark had spun tight inside his chest, and he'd suddenly thought, _Oh._ So _this_ was how it felt, this "falling in love" that everyone talked about. He'd never told anyone, Hot Rod least of all. Hot Rod, he'd told himself, had needed him as a friend.

But then had come that incredible night on the beach. Tracks hadn't considered it proof-positive that his feelings were returned, but at least it indicated that Hot Rod saw him as more than just a buddy. Tracks often thought about the morning they'd woken sprawled in the sand, and wondered what would have happened if Hot Rod hadn't gotten a call from Carly just then, asking if he could come to Autobot City to spend some time with Daniel. Hot Rod had agreed, of course, because Daniel was important to him in the same way that Raoul was to Tracks, and they'd made plans to meet again in New York a few days later.

But then the Decepticons had attacked Autobot City, and everything— _everything_ —had changed. Hot Rod most of all.

Tracks wandered around the apartment, idly poking into drawers and cupboards. He was gratified to note that Rodimus' apparent tidiness didn't extend to the insides of such hidden areas, and the galley, too, was something of a disaster, with big splotches of energon congealing on the polished counter.

A quick scan of the titles on Rodimus' bookshelves yielded some surprising results, including tomes on Cybertronian history, political philosophy and classical literature. Hot Rod's reading tastes had run more to holo-comics, when he'd bothered with reading at all. He'd been far more interested in racing. Was that the Matrix's influence? Arcee was concerned that the Matrix might be driving Rodimus insane, yet somehow, these neatly categorized rows of reading material didn't speak of someone who was losing his mind.

Tracks trailed a finger along a row of title-spines and turned away, chewing his lower lip component absently. This wasn't getting him anywhere. Maybe he should head over to the raceway and see if he could track down some of the old "gang." If he could find Sideswipe, Sunstreaker or Mirage, _and_ if he could convince any of them to speak with a mere _Corvette_ , perhaps he could glean some useful information.

Decision made, he was heading for the door when he noticed a lone datapad left on the entertainment table, as if Rodimus had been using it and then forgotten to put it away. Tracks paused. Could it really hurt, considering that he was snooping anyway? He switched it on to reveal a page filled with cryptic, scribbled notes and little diagrams that might have been designs for buildings. There was a small sketch of Optimus Prime in one corner, and, to Tracks' surprise, also one of himself. It wasn't a bad likeness. Rodimus had drawn him glancing back over his shoulder, lips curving in a small, distant smile.

Tracks stared at the drawing, racking his processor for some sensible category under which it might fit. Why _him_? It didn't make sense, but then again, wondering about it also wasn't getting him any closer to finding Rodimus. He scrolled down the page a bit, scanning for anything that might be remotely helpful. He was about to give up when one particular scribble caught his attention.

 _Jazz_ , was all it said. Below it was a set of numbers that Tracks recognized as a private callsig. He rocked back on his heels, thinking it through. Few people even saw Jazz these days. He'd lost touch with nearly everyone since the war had ended, taking his bondmate with it, but if he and Rodimus were actually in contact, maybe there was a chance he knew something.

Tracks took the datapad over to the comm station and punched the code in before he had a chance to think better of it. The comm pinged several times before the screen lit up and Jazz's face appeared. He looked awful. His armor was scratched and dull, and his face had the hollow, sunken look of someone who hadn't had a decent recharge in orns.

"Tracks?" Jazz sounded startled. "What's goin' on, man? What are you doing at Rod's?"

"I came by looking for him," Tracks said, trying to hide his shock at his former comrade's appearance. The loss of a bondmate was excruciating, or so he'd been told. Not all mechs survived it, and Tracks could understand why Jazz would be keeping to himself these days. Still, seeing the devastation etched across his face made it seem horrifyingly tangible.

"What d'you mean?" Jazz asked. He peered past Tracks, trying to get a look at the room behind him. "He isn't there? How did you get in?"

"I broke in, technically," Tracks admitted. "But the door was open."

"I keep telling him to lock the damn thing." Jazz's pinched features settled into a frown, and the next time he spoke his tone was deadly serious. "What's going on?"

Tracks considered his answer. Arcee had asked him to maintain confidentiality, but he also didn't know how much Jazz already knew. Since getting caught in a lie would almost certainly torpedo his chances of getting any useful information, he settled on an edited version of the truth.

"He's been acting… oddly, and Arcee asked me to have a chat with him. You wouldn't happen to know where he's been spending his time lately?"

"Oddly, hm?" Jazz rubbed his chin. "You know that _if_ I knew something, I wouldn't be able to tell you, right?"

Tracks vented a sigh. "If you _do_ know something it would be very helpful if you did tell me, if only for his sake."

Jazz considered this. Tracks noticed that he was surrounded by what appeared to be some kind of musical contraption with keyboards, flashing colored lights and an intricate system of amps and speakers. It seemed to be half built, and Tracks guessed that this was what Jazz had been working on during his time in seclusion.

"I can't say much," Jazz said finally, "but if you want to talk to him, I'd suggest hitting up the Tyrestian shorefront right about, oh… _now_. There's a joint there called _The Gravity Well_. That'd be your best bet."

"The Tyrestian shorefront?" Tracks echoed. It felt as his internals had suddenly frozen.

"Well yeah," Jazz said. "What's the matter? You look as if the ghost of Starscream just tapped you on the shoulder."

"What in Primus' name is Rodimus doing _there_?" Tracks asked.

"Hey, I've already said more than I should. Seeing as it's you, though, I'm guessing Rod won't mind."

"Seeing as it's _me_? What's that supposed to mean?"

Jazz studied him for a moment, then smiled enigmatically. "Make sure you lock that door on your way out." With that he cut the connection, leaving Tracks alone with his own stunned reflection staring back at him from the blank screen. It was the second time in one evening that someone had made a comment that he couldn't grasp. First Arcee, with her strange remark about something not being his fault, and now this.

Deciding that there was no use in worrying about it, he left the apartment—making sure to lock the door, just as Jazz had requested—and took off, leaving Polyhex behind and setting his course for the city that he'd hoped never to have to set foot in, ever again.


	2. Chapter 2

"Aren't _you_ a shiny one," growled the bartender, an ancient Seeker with a peg leg and a patch covering one of his optics. He was so far from shiny that it was hard to tell what his original colors had been, though Tracks suspected grayish white, with dark purple accents to match his one remaining optic.

"Is that going to be a problem?" Tracks asked.

The bartender paused, glass in hand, regarding him. Tracks noticed the hand that held the glass had been stripped of its exterior armor plating, as if it had been burned away with acid. "Depends," he said, rolling his shoulders in a shrug that made his wings creak. Tracks tried not to flinch at the sound. "It'll be a problem if you plan on doing any kind of _business_ here. You'll find this is a respectable establishment."

"Oh yes, I can see that," Tracks muttered, glancing around.

It had taken him no time at all to find _The Gravity Well_ , which was located on the far-flung Eastern end of the port, and was housed inside an ancient, dry-docked shipping barge. What had been the barge's cargo hold was now the main portion of the nightclub. The crowd was about half native Tyrestians, distinguishable by their nautical altmodes, and the other half warframes, notably Seekers. Most appeared to be neutral, though Tracks had already spotted a few wings and fins bearing hastily scratched-out purple insignias. The bar's entertainment options apparently consisted of puerile drinking games, fist fights, and gawking at the trio of dancers—a mech and two femmes—who were on stage, gyrating to the beat of the music.

"My dancers aren't for sale," the bartender clarified, noting the direction of Tracks' gaze.

"What? No, I'm not—"

"And _you_ had better not be, either."

"Honestly," Tracks said in exasperation, "can't a mech take proper care of his appearance without being mistaken for a gigolo?"

The old Seeker cocked a brow-ridge as he pushed the glass, now filled with a shimmering, pale blue energon cocktail, toward Tracks. "It's the usual explanation in these parts," he said. "Perhaps you've noticed that the so-called 'New Golden Age' hasn't quite reached as far as Tyrest."

It was hard to argue that point. Nearly everyone within Tracks' visual range was scratched, dinged-up and badly in need of a hot-oil bath.

"For your information, I'm here looking for someone," Tracks said, sliding an image card across the bar. "Perhaps you've seen him?"

The bartender picked up the card, stared at it, and burst out laughing. "Lad," he said finally, "does this _look_ like the kind of place where you would expect to find a Prime?"

Tracks had to admit that it didn't, and in fact he was starting to wonder if Jazz had been pulling his leg. Now that he'd come all the way out here, though, he guessed he might as well take a look around. He thanked the bartender and wandered toward the stage, sipping his drink. It wasn't bad, and neither was the band. The music, like the band itself, was a mixture of Vosian and Tyrestian influences. The lilting sea shanties Tyrest was known for blended, with surprising grace, into the atmospheric sounds of traditional Vosian sky-ballads.

It was a combination that brought an ache to Tracks' spark as he recalled some of his very earliest memory-files of wandering through this very seaport with his creators. There had always been musicians on the piers, and the music had always seemed a fitting backdrop for the shimmering waves and the comings and goings of ships through the port; the open bazaars selling goods from every port along the edge of the Rust Sea, and the clamor of voices speaking in a hundred different dialects.

It wasn't as if his creators had loved the place. They'd hated it, and even as young as Tracks had been, he'd still been aware of the contempt they felt toward the Tyrestian locals. _Bumpkins_ was how his creators had referred to them when members of the household staff were within hearing range, and they'd used other, less flattering terms when they thought they weren't. That was why the Inn was where it was, too; perched high on the cliff, literally looking down upon the port and its activities.

Tracks sometimes wondered why his creators had even chosen Tyrest, or why they'd left Praxus in the first place. He remembered them proudly telling him that Praxus was their true home, and that someday they would all return to it. That day had never arrived, at least not for Tracks. Instead, one of his creators had caught him playing what he called the 'floating game,' which involved leaping from the edge of his berth and hovering in midair for as long as possible before gravity took over. Tracks would never forget the look he'd seen on his creator's face at that moment. It was then that he'd begun to realize that he didn't _have_ a true home. At least not on Cybertron.

"Hey, wings!" someone yelled. "You here to play?"

"Play?" Tracks echoed. He didn't know what made him turn. There were plenty of other flight-frames here, but he was used to being the only one. The mech who had spoken was, to his lack of surprise, an Autobot. "Even if you were the last mech on Cybertron, I'm quite certain you couldn't afford me."

The other mech looked startled, then amused. "No worries, you're not my type anyway," he drawled, holding up a datapad that Tracks hadn't noticed he was carrying. "I was asking if you wanted to place a bet before it closes."

Tracks stared at him. A _bet._ Hadn't Jazz said that this place would be his best bet? Knowing Jazz, he might have chosen his words to have a double meaning. "What, exactly, would I be betting _on_?" he inquired.

"You mean who?" The other mech narrowed his optics, clearly trying to decide whether Tracks was being stupid or strategic. "The newcomer has supporters, but I'd say the smart credits are still on Lockjaw." He raised his stylus. "How much d'you want me to put you down for?"

"Hm, I'll need to think about it," Tracks said. "Is there some means by which I might gather more information about the contestants before placing a wager?"

For a moment, the other mech just stared at him. "In there," he said, nodding towards a set of doors at the back of the room, which were being guarded by a huge gunformer who was obviously acting as a bouncer. "Don't gather _too_ long," the mech warned. "The fight's gonna start in a few klicks."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Tracks headed toward the door. The guard, who looked like a younger, green-and-silver version of Shockwave, moved to block his path. "Ticket?"

"Ah… I'll need to purchase one," Tracks said, reaching for his credit chip.

"No can do," the guard replied. "It's all sold out."

"Sold out?" Tracks glanced at the playbill posted on a screen next to the door. The title read _Lockjaw vs. Incognitus: The Final Battle_ , above two silhouetted figures. One was a gigantic, spiky form with a wolfish head and scythe-like talons, and the other was a slim yet powerful-looking mech standing with his fists on his hips in a confident, heroic stance. This second figure had a telltale pair of chevron-shaped spoiler wings rising behind his back.

"Look, I really need to get in," Tracks said urgently. Unexplained dents and scratches? If _this_ was what Rodimus had been doing in his spare time, no wonder. "How much will it take?" he asked. "Ten, twenty credits? Twenty-five?"

"Sorry pal," the bouncer said irritably. "Sold out means sold out. I don't take bribes; especially not from the likes of you."

"The likes of me?" Tracks dragged his gaze from the playbill long enough to realize that the bouncer was staring at his insignia. "Oh, I assure you I'm not an enforcer," he said quickly. "Merely an aficionado of the pugilistic arts."

"An affiction-of-the-what?" The bouncer shook his head. "Move along, buddy. You're holding up the line."

Tracks could feel the press of bodies behind him, sharp wings and elbows threatening his wax job, but he held firm. "I really must insist," he said. He turned around, addressing the various mechs lined up behind him. "Will anyone sell me their ticket?" he asked. "I'll pay you handsomely for—"

"Hold on, Affiction," the bouncer said suddenly, putting a hand on his arm. He was listening to something over his comm. "Apparently, you're on the guest list. Get in there, and stop wasting everyone's time."

He waved Tracks through the door. Tracks dodged past him before he had a chance to change his mind. It was obviously a mistake— _had_ to be, but he certainly wasn't about to question it. Beyond the doorway was a short fight of steps, which he followed down into what seemed to be a lower deck of the barge. This room was smaller than the main one, and it was packed. The crowd in here featured a higher percentage of warframes and obvious ex-Decepticons, but Tracks strode through the crowd with his head held high, trusting his prominent missile array to discourage all but the most determined, or intoxicated, challengers.

The fight ring was positioned at the center of the room, and cordoned off with ropes. It was empty for now, though brilliantly spotlit, and Tracks sensed the crowd's tense anticipation as they stared at it, waiting. Where were the fighters? Glancing around, Tracks noticed a small alcove at the far side of the room. That had to be the backstage door.

Tracks started toward it, but a rough hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Tracks found himself gazing up into the scowling face of a gray-and-orange Seeker of the cone-headed variety. His wings were unmarked, suggesting that he was one of the neutrals who'd been returning from… well, wherever the neutral Seekers had been throughout the war.

"Hey, fancy aft!" he snarled in Tracks' face, his vents reeking of hi-grade. "You down from the capital? Slumming it? You got a lotta ball-bearings comin' here." He paused as his gaze focused, with evident difficulty, on Tracks' insignia. "You're an Autobot."

"Why yes," Tracks agreed, having learned that it was always best to agree with drunk, angry people. "What of it?"

The Seeker's mouth twisted. "I didn't know they accepted your kind."

"Beg pardon?"

"Don't make like you don't know what I'm talkin' about! You disgusting half-breed." The Seeker jabbed a digit at one of Tracks' wings. " _We_ got driven from our aeries! Our cities were bombed to rubble and we were driven off the planet, while _you_ just went and picked the winning side!" He shoved Tracks in the chest, forcing him to stumble backward against whoever was behind him. "How does it feel, knowing you sold out your own kind?"

"I really _don't_ know what you're talking about," Tracks replied, pulling himself to his full height. He still had to crane his neck to glare up at the taller mech. The Seeker was almost certainly stronger than he was, though he was also swaying noticeably. "If you think that I'm your kind," Tracks went on, "then I'm afraid you're sadly—"

"Think you're better n' us, don't ya?" the Seeker interrupted, raising his fist. "Parading around here all shiny, while the rest of us are living on scraps! I'm gonna take a dent out of that pretty red face."

Tracks tensed, waiting for the inevitable. He could now see two other Seekers—this one's trinemates, presumably—pushing towards them through the crowd. He was either going to have to fight or make a run for it. Running seemed like the wiser option. He'd outmaneuvered Seekers in the air before, and he could do it again if he had to. At least, he _hoped_ he could, though this time it was three against one. Even if he managed, though, how was that going to help Rodimus?

His thoughts were interrupted by the Seeker's big fist sailing toward him. Tracks was more than ready, and it was almost _too_ easy to duck out of the way. His assailant overbalanced and stumbled forward, and it was only belatedly that Tracks noticed the large, black arm that had shot out from somewhere behind where he'd just been standing and had seized the Seeker by his wrist. The Seeker gave a startled yelp as he was dragged forward and pinned against a broad, matte-black chest with a scroll-work of electric blue flames painted across it.

"Is this yours?" the newcomer asked. His expression was hidden behind a heavy battle-mask, but his voice—his deep, _familiar_ voice—was tinged with humor as he addressed the Seeker's trinemates, who were by now hurrying up to them.

"Incognitus?" one of them said in an awed voice, her optics going wide. "Uh, yeah. Unfortunately he's with us. Sorry if he was causing you trouble."

"Well, here you go." The mystery mech gave his captive a light push, which sent him staggering forward into the arms of his companions. "You might want to keep a close optic on him until he sobers up."

"Y-yes," the third member of the trine stammered as he looped his arm around Tracks' dazed, would-be attacker. "C'mon Sunspot, let's get you outta here."

'Sunspot' recovered his wits enough to hurl a few more choice epithets in Tracks' direction as his companions dragged him toward the door. Tracks flinched, and slanted a glance up at the matte black apparition who now stood next to him, his stance not unlike the pose he'd displayed on the playbill. How long had… Incognitus… been there? How much had he _heard_?

"You all right?" the tall mech asked.

That _voice_. It was the same voice that Tracks had heard make countless speeches over the holonet; the voice that, even now, was stirring unruly flutters in the depths of his chassis. It had to be Rodimus; no one else sounded like that. But then again, wasn't Incognitus a bit taller than Rodimus was? Weren't his shoulders wider, his chest a bit deeper? He couldn't be Rodimus, though he could have been sparked by the same creators. Perhaps Jazz has simply mixed them up. It would be easy enough to do so under these poor lighting conditions, or if all you happened to see was the playbill.

"I—I'm fine," Tracks managed, after resetting his vocalizer a couple of times. "I think I should just leave."

"But you've come so far," that voice replied, as a large hand settled on his shoulder. The digits tightened fractionally, giving a light squeeze. "I'd really like it if you stayed."

"You—?"

Tracks broke off, gaping. What was wrong with him? He was acting like a giddy youngling. He racked his processor for something to say, but it was already too late. The hand was slipping from his shoulder as Incognitus turned and strode away through the crowd, which hastily parted to make room.

Tracks stared after him as he walked away, his shoulder still tingling where Incognitus' hand had rested. _Not Rodimus,_ he reminded himself sternly, while another part of his mind circled insistently around a different question entirely: _Who in Primus' name would choose_ Incognitus _as their alias?_

And, of course, he knew.

"Hey!" He hurried after the tall, retreating form, but the crowd had by now swelled to at least a hundred individuals, and they were packed in so tight that he had to elbow his way through, drawing curses from all sides. A powerful hand suddenly grabbed his back-kibble and lifted him off his feet as easily as a mother cat might scruff a kitten.

"Hold on, Affiction," a familiar voice said. "You trying to cause a riot?"

"Unhand me!" Tracks demanded as he twisted in the other's grip, trying to break free. His captor obediently lowered him back to the floor and Tracks spun to face him, glaring up into the bouncer's single, orange optic. "I need to speak with R… Incognitus! Immediately!"

"Can't do it," the bouncer replied, "but turns out you're in luck. C'mon." He motioned for Tracks to follow him.

Tracks crossed his arms. "I'm not leaving until I speak with him!"

The bouncer vented a sigh. "I'm not kicking you out, Affiction. Least, not _yet_. You gonna follow me or not?"

Tracks fell in step behind him, keeping well out of grabbing range. As the bouncer led him around to the other side of the ring, the overhead lights suddenly dimmed and a cracking voice rang out.

"Greetings, friends! Are you ready?"

The crowd erupted into deafening cheers. Tracks rocked up on the tips of his pedes, straining for a view, but the bouncer took a step back, caught his arm and dragged him to the far side of the ring. Here, a small, raised section of bleachers stood cordoned off from the rest of the room, with only a few mechs, all warframes, seated in them. The bouncer opened the rope-cordon and motioned Tracks into the bleachers.

"Told ya. You're on the guest list."

As Tracks gingerly took a seat, he saw that the ancient bartender was standing at the center of the ring, his wings flared proudly behind him.

"This is the final showdown!" he intoned. "We have gathered here tonight to witness an epic battle!"

The crowd roared, and Tracks' seatmates roared right along with them. Tracks eyed them nervously. There were a couple of Seekers, similar to the bartender in terms of vintage, sitting in the front row. They looked fairly harmless, but then there was also a massive tank-former, so heavily armored that his frame took up almost an entire bench, and a maroon-and-silver gunformer who might easily have been the bouncer's twin.

"Tagging in, bro," the bouncer said, extending a hand to the maroon-and-silver one in a high-five gesture.

"Bodyguard duty?" the second one asked, glancing at Tracks as he returned the salute.

"More like babysitting," the first growled as he swung up onto the bench next to Tracks. The second gunformer dipped his head in acknowledgment and stepped down into the crowd.

"I assure you, this isn't necessary," Tracks said as his companion nudged him farther along the bench to make room.

"Fight's about to start," the bouncer pointed out, noddng toward the ring where the old bartender was continuing to whip the crowd into a frenzy. "You got a choice. Stick around and behave, or get tossed out. Which would you prefer?"

"You don't understand," Tracks said. "This is an extremely—"

"Which of them will prevail?" the bartender shouted. "Will it be our reigning champion? Terror of the pits of Kaon? Last of the Lycaons? The great, the terrible— Lockjaw!"

As he said the designation, a blur of howling gray steel launched itself into the ring and threw itself against the ropes, green optics blazing as it snarled at the crowd. The audience responded with howls of greeting, pumping their fists in the air as the monster struck ferocious poses, basking in their attention.

"Wh… what _is_ that?" Tracks asked.

"He's a Lycaon," the bouncer supplied. "Last of his kind, or so they say."

In the ring, the bartender was continuing his speech. "Or," he went on, dropping his tone for effect, "will it be the upstart? The challenger? Will it be… the ever-mysterious Incognitus?"

On cue Incognitus, now shrouded in a dark, floor-length cloak, bounded into the ring. He circled its perimeter, striking martial-arts poses and leaning down to exchange high-fives with his supporters. The crowd reacted with a mixture of cheers and a few hisses as Incognitus threw off his cloak and spun to face Lockjaw.

The bartender, in the meantime, ducked out of the ring to join the other two aged Seekers, who were obviously his trine. Tracks noticed how heavily he sank down between them, as if giving that speech had just taken the last of his strength. One of his trinemates slipped an arm around him and leaned over to brush a kiss against his helm crest, while the other linked arms with him and gently took hold of his damaged hand. There was something about those simple gestures that made Tracks' spark ache. His creators had never shown that kind of affection for one another, and he'd often wondered if he was the cause of that.

In the ring the two opponents circled, sizing each other up, while a small green-and-black tankformer not unlike Warpath stood between them, acting as referee. Tracks was sizing them up, too. Rodimus was certainly a powerful mech, but he was armed with only a small, round shield attached to his right forearm, while the Lycaon, who towered above him, sported talons that looked like they could flay the armor right off his frame. Presumably the shield would offer some protection, but Tracks didn't like the odds.

"Fight! Fight! Fight!" the crowd had begun to chant, clearly eager to see fuel get spilled. Tracks glanced around nervously, wondering if they were about to mob the stage. He couldn't decide whether to be reassured or unsettled by the fact that the ring was now being guarded by no less than five massive warframes, including the magenta-and-silver gunformer.

"The fighting's all fake, right?" he asked the bouncer in a low voice.

"Sure," the bouncer snorted. His face was incapable of expression, but Tracks caught the irony in his tone. "This new guy fights okay," he added, tilting his boxy head toward the ring, "but he's definitely outclassed here."

Tracks' spirits sank. What was Rodimus _thinking_? He was leader of the Autobots, yet he was he was placing himself in terrible, awful danger—and for what? To entertain these yokels? It didn't make sense. Rodimus might be eccentric, but surely he wouldn't do something _that_ crazy. But then Tracks remembered what Arcee had said about the Matrix. If Rodimus' body was rejecting it, then he might be capable of just about anything. He might even be _trying_ to get himself killed.

Chilled by that last thought, Tracks considered his options. If this got ugly he would have to intervene, though he wasn't sure how. The fact that the bouncer seemed to have adopted him as his shadow wasn't exactly helping. _Shadow_ , he thought suddenly. That was it! If he could get into the ring, he could use his black-beam gun to temporarily blind everyone and drag Rodimus out of here. He just had to wait for the right opportunity.

A bell clanged, and the two opponents lunged at each other. Lockjaw roared, his talons flashing under the spotlight as he drove them at Rodimus' midsection, angling for a quick, disabling strike. Tracks tensed, ready to leap into the ring and fight by Rodimus' side if he had to, but then at the last possible instant, Rodimus spun to the side, deflecting the deadly claws with his shield while reaching to catch hold of his opponent's arm. He ducked, flipping Lockjaw above his back and using his momentum to send him flying halfway across the ring. Lockjaw landed with a crash that shook the bleachers and a burst of cheers, mixed with hisses and howls, went up from the crowd.

Tracks shot the bouncer a smug look. "Outclassed, you say?"

The bouncer snorted. "They're just testing each other out right now. Like I said, Incognitus isn't a bad fighter, but Lockjaw used to be a gladiator. He eats mechs like your pal for breakfast."

"Oh, is _that_ a fact?" Tracks crossed his arms, his fear suddenly replaced by indignation. "There is simply no way that R—Incognitus—is going to be outmatched by that… monstrosity."

In the ring, Lockjaw rolled to his feet, shaking himself like a wet dog. He snarled, exposing a mouthful of tusk-like fangs, and sprang. Rodimus managed to dodge the first blow, which was aimed at his shoulder, and leaped into the air. He landed on Lockjaw's spiky shoulders and tried to get him in a head-lock, but his arms weren't long enough. Massive, clawed hands snared and lifted him as if he weighed nothing. Lockjaw turned slowly, giving everyone a good view of the struggling Rodimus before slamming him to the mat.

Tracks flinched in sympathy as he felt the vibrations from the crash. Lockjaw, however, wasn't done. He stomped a heavy clawed pede on the center of Rodimus' chest, pinning him, then reared high above him with his arms outstretched, fully extended claws flashing under the spotlight.

 _Get up, Rodimus_ , Tracks thought, clenching his fists. _Get up, get up, get up—_

Lockjaw roared and lunged, catching Rodimus' throat between his jaws. He lifted and shook him, growling ferociously while Rodimus, who seemed to have regained his senses somewhat, tried vainly to pry the jaws from his throat. The mech who was acting as referee ran to center ring, counting down on his digits. "Three… two…"

"Get up!" Tracks shouted, unable to restrain himself. The fight, which had seemed ludicrous moments earlier, suddenly seemed vitally important, as if Rodimus' very honor was at stake.

It was unclear whether or not Rodimus heard him, but he did suddenly galvanize into action, driving his knee up into Lockjaw's midsection. The Lycaon arched with a grunt of pain, his body going rigid while Rodimus rolled back onto his shoulders and kicked up with both pedes, hitting Lockjaw square in the chest and throwing him against the ropes.

Rodimus sprang to his feet and cannonballed into Lockjaw's midsection, scooping him onto his shoulders in a fireman's carry. He paused for a moment, letting the crowd take in the sight, before he slammed him down and dove for the attack. Lockjaw was ready. He rolled to the side and caught Rodimus with his shoulder, throwing him off. Both scrambled up, and they were back to circling each other.

"Your friend's doing better than I thought," the bouncer said mockingly.

"Maybe your _Lycaon_ isn't such a great fighter after all!" Tracks flared, unable to keep himself from bristling.

"Perhaps not," the bouncer replied. "Lock must be getting past his prime if he can't even crush some rich Iaconian pantywaist like your buddy there."

"Why, you—!" Tracks broke off. _He's looking for an excuse to pummel me_ , he warned himself. _Then what good will I be to Rodimus?_ He forced himself to calm down and focus on the fight. If Rodimus needed his help, he wanted to be ready to spring into action, something that wouldn't be possible if he was distracted, or worse.

When it came down to it, though, the two fighters seemed surprisingly well-matched. Lockjaw had the greater height, weight, and reach, as well as the natural advantage afforded by having those terrifying claws, but Rodimus was nimble, fearless, and skilled not just with his shield, but also at turning Lockjaw's attack momentum to his own advantage. The fight went back and forth, slowly driving the crowd's responses toward a fever pitch, until it happened: Rodimus' shield cracked.

It happened so abruptly that even Lockjaw seemed startled. He was lunging at Rodimus, claws extended, and Rodimus had raised his shield to ward off the attack. The claws struck a glancing blow against the shield, and it split neatly down the middle, as if there was a fault-line in its underlying structure. Lockjaw lost his balance and plowed straight into Rodimus, claws first, and slashed him across his chestplate. He recoiled, stumbling back as Rodimus raised his hands to his chest.

Tracks could see sparking wires and energon welling up where the claws had ripped through his exo-armor, but even from this distance, he could also see something that was potentially far worse. A section of the black outer shell, which was obviously prosthetic, had been sliced away, and a telltale flash of orange and magenta was now showing through. It was this which Rodimus was now desperately trying to cover with his hands.

"Kill! Kill! Kill!" the crowd began to chant.

Lockjaw roared and lunged at Rodimus, slashing with his claws while Rodimus stumbled back and away from him. It was now or never. Tracks leapt from the bleachers, dodging the bouncer's arm as he belatedly grabbed for him. The bouncer's thick fingers skated off his back-kibble, doubtless leaving gashes in his finish, but that was something he'd have to worry about later. Tracks engaged his flight engines and sailed over the ropes to land squarely between Rodimus and his attacker.

"Time for lights out!" he said, and fired his black-beam gun.

The ring, the crowd, and everything else disappeared, swallowed in darkness. The only things still visible were a pair blazing green optics rushing toward him. Tracks tried to dodge out of their path, but a clawed hand grasped his throat and lifted him off his feet as a deep voice growled, "Lycaons can see in the dark."

* * *

 **AN:** So yes, I did (belatedly) remember that there is a wolf-like character named Steeljaw, a name that's pretty similar to the name of my OC. After talking this over with the lovely Ribbonelle, I opted to keep the name as it is, since a). I like the short form "Lock," and b). when I came up with it, I was riffing on Tracks' voice actor apparently having described the accent he chose for Tracks as "Harvard lockjaw," which amuses me for some reason. In any case, I wanted to clarify that Lockjaw is a different character, just in case anyone thought otherwise.


	3. Chapter 3

"Lockjaw! What the Pit are you doing?"

It was Rodimus' voice, coming from somewhere behind Tracks. A hand grazed Tracks' back blindly in the dark, and then a strong pair of arms were lifting him, taking the pressure off his neck where Lockjaw still gripped him.

"He's with _you_?" Lockjaw sounded disgusted.

"Yeah, put him down. He's a friend."

"He's an _idiot_ ," Lockjaw said with a snort. "Then again, I'd expect no different from a friend of yours."

The crushing grip eased, to Tracks' relief, and he was lowered back to the floor. His legs buckled and Rodimus caught him, bracing him against the solid wall of his chest. That felt entirely _too_ nice, and Tracks pried himself free.

"He's with _you_?" he demanded, turning a scowl on the unseen Rodimus.

"It's a long story," Rodimus said.

"Your _friend_ just ruined our fight," Lockjaw put in. "What are we supposed to do now?"

"I dunno, have another one?" Rodimus suggested.

"We can't, glitch! Someone might have seen your real colors just now!"

"If they did, whose fault was that?"

"Guys!" Tracks interrupted, having noticed that their cover of darkness was wearing thin, "Maybe we should get out of here before—"

"The fault was yours!" Lockjaw snarled. "You were supposed to wait for my _cue_ to break your shield, not—"

"Guys! Just because they can't _see_ you doesn't mean they can't hear what you're saying!"

Rodimus and Lockjaw froze, then slowly turned their gazes toward the crowd, who were becoming visible again. There was a low murmur of anger, like the distant grumbles of thunder before a storm.

"The fight was rigged!" someone yelled.

"Get them!" shouted another voice, and then the crowd was surging up over the ropes like a tide. The bouncers tried to hold them back, but were simply pushed out of the way. Lockjaw dropped to a crouch, baring his fangs, and someone threw their drink at him. It spattered into his optics. He snarled and struck out blindly, causing a few of their would-be attackers to cower back, but they were pushed forward by the press of bodies behind them.

"Tracks is right," Rodimus said, seizing Lockjaw's arm. "We have to go. Tracks! Do you have any juice left in that gun?"

Tracks, by way of an answer, fired above the heads of the crowd. A secondary darkness fell, less dense than the first, and he yelped as a big, taloned arm wrapped around him and lifted him off his feet. "What—? Unhand me, brute! What do you think you're—"

Lockjaw crouched. "I told you, Lycaons can see in the dark. Remember?" He sprang right at the crowd and Tracks instinctively shuttered his optics, but then he felt a sensation that was not unlike flying. When he opened his optics, he saw that the Lycaon's powerful leap had carried them above the crowd and into the uppermost bleachers. Another mighty leap carried them to the mouth of the alcove that Tracks had noticed earlier. It was, as he'd suspected, a doorway to what seemed to be a backstage area, and was being guarded by none other than the green-and-silver bouncer.

Tracks wriggled free of Lockjaw's grip and aimed his weapon. "Who's outclassed now?" he said. "Step out of our way, or I _will_ shoot you." His gun's black-beam capability was exhausted for now, but he always kept the laser cells charged in case of an emergency.

"Aw, Affiction," the big gunformer said with an exasperated vent. "You're just nothing but trouble, are ya?'"

"S'okay Tracks," Rodimus said, putting a hand on the muzzle of Tracks' weapon. "Xycic's one of ours too."

"C'mon." Xycic collected them with a nod and led the way down the short corridor. "And Lock, I wouldn't wanna be in your pedes right now."

"As if you weren't in on it," Lockjaw grumbled.

"Not the cheating part! You really thought you couldn't beat this pantywaist fair and square?"

"I'm right here," Rodimus said.

Tracks huffed, "Could someone kindly explain what, in the name of Primus and his great, throbbing… er, _spark,_ is going on here?"

"The slag's about to hit the fan, is what," Xycic said as he keyed open a hatch. "Just be glad you're not in the line of fire, Affiction."

The hatch opened onto a storage room that was obviously being used as a backstage dressing area. The ancient bartender was perched on a chair flanked by his trinemates, and the look he fixed on Lockjaw was enough to freeze the energon in Tracks' fuel lines.

"Lockjaw," he said.

The wolf-mech dropped his gaze. "You heard."

"I might be old, lad, but I'm not deaf." The Seeker drummed the fingers of his good hand against the chair arm. Tracks noticed that he held the damaged one tucked against his thigh and wondered if it was habit or coincidence, though he suspected the former. "Have you anything to say for yourself?"

" _Tra'samo_ ," Lockjaw said, surprising Tracks with his use of the Vosian honorific for an adoptive guardian, "I am sorry. Please forgive me. I knew that you wouldn't like it, but—"

"It was my idea," Rodimus said, stepping forward. "I insisted on it. Incognitus had to lose this last fight and be forgotten about, because I need to go back to my normal life. It was wrong to deceive you, Albedo, but we were afraid that you wouldn't accept our help otherwise."

"And you were right," the old Seeker said, scowling at both of them. "I'm going to reimburse everyone who bought a ticket for this fight."

"You can't!" one of his trinemates, a black Seeker with orange wing-stripes, broke in. "We need every single one of those credits to pay for—"

"Sable, that's enough!" Albedo made a slicing gesture with his good hand. "I run an honest establishment. I don't tolerate whoring, cheating or illegal trafficking within these walls, and that's final." Tracks didn't like the way Albedo's lone optic flicked toward him when he said _whoring_ , but it was hard not to be impressed by the steely tone of his voice.

His other trinemate, a red-and-gold Seeker whom Tracks recognized as the one who'd kissed Albedo earlier, looked stricken. "Your honor isn't as important as your life, Al."

Albedo twisted toward him with a screech of straining armor. "My honor is _everything_ , Rue! Without it I'm…" he paused as something unspoken seemed to pass between them, and his lined face softened fractionally. "We'll talk about this later," he amended in a gentler tone, though his scowl was firmly back in place as he turned back to Lockjaw. "That goes _double_ for you, lad."

Lockjaw flinched, looking for all the world like a youngling who'd just been scolded. A clamor of voices from the passage outside broke the silence, and there was a crash of someone throwing their frame against the hatch.

Xycic cleared his vents. "You guys should get outta here," he said. "You especially, Rod." He went over to what appeared to be a blank wall and pressed a hidden panel with his gun arm. A doorway opened, revealing a flight of steps that led up to what Tracks guessed was the street level.

"Come," Lockjaw said heavily. "I will cover for you in case you need it." He cast a final, sorrowful glance at Albedo as he strode to the door, motioning for Tracks and Rodimus to follow.

"I'm sorry," Rodimus said as they emerged into an alley. "My hand slipped on the shield trigger. I didn't mean—"

"No, he is right," Lockjaw interrupted. "I don't know what I was thinking, I just…" he sighed. "It kills me to see him like this."

Rodimus patted his arm. "We'll figure something out," he promised.

"I hope so," Lockjaw said heavily.

"Hey!" a shout rang from the mouth of the alley. "There they are! Get 'em!"

A group of figures came charging around the corner. Lockjaw bristled, the spines along his back flaring like hackles as he stretched out his arms and talons as if to shield Rodimus and Tracks. "We're gonna have to fight them," he said in a low voice. "This alley's a dead end."

"No," Tracks said, glancing around. "I know this alley—there's another way out! Follow me."

He transformed and sped off down the alley, the other two close behind. Shouts and footsteps echoed from behind, and a few scattered bursts of laserfire ricocheted from the walls. Luckily, none of their pursuers seemed to have particularly good aim, and they reached the end of the alley unscathed.

"Are you sure about this?" Rodimus asked as he and Tracks transformed back out of their vehicle modes.

Tracks, instead of answering, lunged at a heap of rubble piled against one of the walls and started pulling at the debris. "It's behind all this!" he shouted.

Lockjaw shoulder-checked him out of the way and cleared the debris with one swipe of his arm, exposing the narrow access passage that Tracks had known would be there. "Nice find," he said, "but it is too narrow for me. I'll hold them off for you."

He spun around and charged back toward their pursuers, his frame shifting from its bipedal form into that of a spiny quadruped as he galloped toward them. Their would-be attackers skidded to a halt, staring wide-opticked at the howling terror bearing down on them, then ran screaming.

"I think Lock's better off without us," Rodimus said with a chuckle, and Tracks couldn't fight a wave of jealousy at the unmistakable affection in his tone.

"Who is he?" he demanded. "Who are _any_ of these people?"

"Friends," Rodimus said as he wedged himself into the access passage, turning sideways so that his spoiler wings would fit. "Lock and I spar. He's an ex-gladiator, so I asked him to teach me some of his moves, and—"

"Moves?" Tracks cut in. "Just what kind of 'moves' are we talking about?"

"Not _that_ kind!" Rodimus exclaimed, sounding startled. He retracted his battle-mask, and Tracks noticed a light flush blooming along the chiseled lines of his faceplate. "He's bonded, for one thing, and anyway, well… no."

"Ah." Tracks dropped his gaze. He was just as glad that his faceplate was the color that it was, because he could feel it burning. His jealousy felt like an unsightly scratch across his hood, writ large for all to see. "What about the rest of them?" he asked. "They all seem to know who you are. Don't you think that's a bit irresponsible?"

"It's just Lock's family who know my real identity," Rodimus said, glancing toward the mouth of the alley. The shouts and howls were fading with distance, and it seemed they had the alley to themselves for the time being. "Albedo and his trinemates, and of course Xycic."

"Oh, of _course_ Xycic," Tracks echoed, unable to keep the sarcasm from his tone. "That makes perfect sense."

Rodimus frowned. He took a step closer, reaching for Tracks, then seemed to think better of it. "What's going on?" he asked. "Why are you here? And don't tell me you just happened to be in the neighborhood."

" _This_ neighborhood? Certainly not! Arcee spoke with me. She's worried, Rod. The way you've been disappearing, skipping important state occasions, bursting into song when asked to give a speech—"

"Aw, she said she _liked_ my singing voice."

"Hot Rod, this is serious! Everyone's worried about you. They're afraid…" Tracks paused, glancing around to make sure they really were alone. "They're afraid your body might be rejecting the Matrix. Apparently it's happened before, and with dire consequences."

"I've seen those consequences," Rodimus said. "I was careless once, and lost the Matrix. It fell into Scourge's hands, turned him into a monstrosity and nearly killed him. I've accepted that the Matrix is my burden to bear, but I have to bear it in my own way, Tracks. It's not always going to be in ways that others expect."

"But… prize-fighting in some skeevy bar? How does that fit in?"

"You saw Albedo," Rodimus said. "He's dying. He needs medical help that none of his people can afford, and he's too proud to accept charity."

"So you arranged all this to drum up business for his bar?"

"That was the plan, though you can see how well it worked." Rodimus nodded toward the access passage. "Will this take us to the shore?"

"Yes, it's—"

"I want to show you something."

Rodimus edged into the gap, turning sideways so that his spoiler-wings would fit, and Tracks followed. It was much tighter than he remembered.

"You know this area well, don't you?" Rodimus said, his voice echoing in the dark.

"I used to live here," Tracks admitted, shuddering as one of his pedes came down on something unseen, and squishy. "This was one of my short-cuts, before I could fly."

" _Before_ you could fly?"

"My flight capability kicked in unexpectedly when I was still quite young."

"Huh. Wish I could be that lucky."

"You don't," Tracks replied. "Believe me."

Rodimus paused. His blue optics were the only part of him that was visible in the darkness, and Tracks couldn't read their expression. "You called me Hot Rod back there," he said. "Did you notice that you did that?"

"I'm sorry," Tracks said. "Sometimes I forget."

"Don't be," came the quiet response. "It's nice hearing that name. It's nice knowing that Hot Rod _hasn't_ been forgotten."

Tracks' spark whirled faster, uncertainty warring with all the things that he wanted to ask, things he wanted to say, but Rodimus started moving again before he had the chance. They emerged into another alley, one that Tracks knew well, and Rodimus strode down it to reach the crumbling sea wall. There he paused, gazing out across the sea.

"There." He pointed to the distant shore where Polyhex shone like a jeweled crown. "That's what I wanted you to see."

Tracks frowned. "What about it?"

"Just… it looks _different_ from here, don't you think? Ever since I've started coming to places like Tyrest, I've been thinking about how _that_ must look from the perspective of someone living in Vos, or Kaon, or Tarn, or Altihex… or Tyrest. Any of the places that we've left to ruin while spending our credits to rebuild former Autobot strongholds, or putting up memorials that remember the losses on just one side of the war. The new Golden Age must seem like a sham to these people."

Tracks thought of what Albedo had said to him about the new Golden Age, and nodded. "But what can we do about it?" he asked. "There are only so many credits to go around. Doesn't it make sense to focus on a few key areas first?"

"We have to create a world that works for everyone. All Cybertronians need to have a place in it, or else…" Rodimus glanced over at Tracks. "Right now, I'm afraid we're just setting ourselves up for the next war."

Tracks stared at him. Was this the Matrix's influence? It certainly wasn't something he could imagine Hot Rod ever saying, but his words didn't sound like those of a mad-mech, either. "Is that why you've been coming here?" he asked. "To see things from another perspective?"

Rodimus inclined his head. "Yep. It was Lock who gave me the idea. He challenged me to come and see how his people live, and I learned… well, they're just people, Tracks. Like us. _My_ people. I have as much responsibility to them as I do for the people of Polyhex, or Iacon, or Praxus, and… if we want peace, I think we're going to have to start taking better care of each other." He paused, studying Tracks. "Are you going to tell anyone?"

Tracks thought about it, but finally shook his head. "Your secret is safe with me," he said, the words leaving a dull ache in his chest. Hot Rod might not be forgotten, but the Matrix held a claim on Rodimus that Tracks could never compete with. "I'll tell Arcee that I wasn't able to find you," he added.

"Thank you," Rodimus said. "That means a lot."

Tracks nodded and turned away, his spark aching with the remembered taste of the salt wind and that first kiss, now forever lost in time. "I'll fly back so that we arrive at separate times," he said, but then froze at the touch of a hand on his arm.

"Tracks wait, I—" Rodimus broke off, the hand falling away.

Tracks turned to find Rodimus studying him uncertainly, the stately confidence of a moment earlier having evaporated like mist. "Do you have to go?" he asked, and now his tone was pure Hot Rod. "I mean… it's been so long, and… I've really missed you."

"I…" Tracks knew what he _wanted_ to say, but he also knew it wasn't right. He was all too aware of the Inn looming on the cliff high above them. The moons cast shadows of its spectral turrets across the pavement between them, stirring up ghost-voices from the depths of his memory files. _Winged freak!_ they hissed. _Half-breed!_ And worst of all was the memory of his creators saying nothing, just gazing through him as if he wasn't there.

"I left messages for you," Rodimus said. "After the fighting was all over. Did you get them?"

Tracks dropped his gaze. "Yes."

"I was hoping we could meet in New York like we'd planned on doing, but you never called back. Did you… _regret_ what happened between us?"

"No, of course not!" Tracks flared. "But how could I call you? You're not… the _same_ anymore. "

"You know that isn't true," Rodimus countered. "You know that Hot Rod's still here. And yours, if you want him."

Tracks gazed up into Rodimus' optics. They were the color of the sky on that morning when they'd woken up in the sand. "It doesn't matter what I want," he said heavily. "It just can't work between us."

"Why not? If it's what we both want, then I don't see—"

"Do I have to draw you a picture, Rod?" Tracks glanced at the Inn, and drew a sigh. "Come with me."

He strode toward the base of the cliff, motioning for Rodimus to follow. The trail that zig-zagged up the cliff face was even more precarious than he remembered it being, and led past the openings of long-abandoned cliff dwellings (at least, Tracks sincerely _hoped_ they were abandoned) and up through dense patches of steelthorn vines that scratched their calves. Tracks had stopped using this trail the moment his wings had been strong enough to carry him to the top, but Rodimus didn't have that luxury.

"I thought you told me once that you grew up in Altihex," Rodimus said.

"I did," Tracks agreed. "After Skylynx took me in, I grew up there and in every spaceport between here and the edge of the Nebulon Empire. But when I was very young," he added as they reached the top of the cliff, "I grew up there." He gestured toward the Inn.

" _There_?"

Tracks caught the note of disbelief in Rodimus' tone, and he couldn't blame him. Up close, the Inn appeared even more decrepit than it had from the air. "It wasn't like this back then," he explained as he started along the crumbling roadway that led toward it. "Tyrest was a hub of cultural activity back then, and the Inn was its crown jewel. Anyone who _was_ anyone stayed here when they visited the area. It was considered… romantic, I suppose."

"I guess I can see that," Rodimus mused, still sounding skeptical, "but why did you live in a hotel?"

"Because my creators owned it," Tracks answered with a laugh. "They built this place when they moved here from Praxus. I don't think they were very happy about being here, but they certainly did well for themselves."

"They were nobles?"

"Minor ones," Tracks confirmed. They had arrived at the gates, which had long since fallen off their hinges, though remnants of Tracks' old family crest were still visible amid the wreckage. "They were very proud of the fact." He stepped through the front gate. "This was the garden. There was a fountain there," he said, pointing, "and arbors of chime-fronds growing at each side of the entrance. That's where I used to hide."

"That sounds like fun," Rodimus said.

"It wasn't a game." Tracks paused at the foot of the steps that led up to the Inn's formerly grand entrance and turned, searching Rodimus' face. How could he explain this in a way that Rodimus would understand? "I would hide there and watch the guests as they arrived. If any were important, my creators would come out to greet them on the steps. The guards eventually caught me hiding, and threw me out."

"Threw you out? But why—"

"Because I wasn't welcome here. My creators sent me away when they discovered that my wings weren't just for show. The old Praxian families are good at hiding the fact that they have Seeker ancestry, but the coding resurfaces every now and then, and a flighted sparkling is created. It's known as the taint."

"Taint," Rodimus repeated, with a look of distaste. "It sounds like a disease."

"It's treated as one—worse, in fact. It's like a mark of shame. If word had gotten out, my creators would have lost their business, their reputation… everything that mattered to them."

Rodimus was quiet for a moment. "So what did they do?" he finally asked, in a tone that suggested he didn't want to hear the answer.

"I was sent away. There was a system in place for… cases… such as myself. I was given a different name and a new set of memories, and placed in a shelter for younglings who'd lost their creators."

"Like an orphanage?"

"I suppose you could call it that."

"Oh, Tracks." Rodimus took a step closer, not touching him but close enough that Tracks could sense his field as a comforting shimmer of warmth.

"It wasn't terrible," Tracks added hastily. "The guardians at the shelter were kind, but I sensed that I wasn't where I was meant to be. Then my real memories started coming back, and I ran away. I came back here, but my creators wouldn't take me in. They acted as if they didn't know me." He paused. "Now do you understand why this can't work? Between us, I mean."

Rodimus shook his head. "That was a long time ago, Tracks. How does it affect us now?"

"Rod…" Tracks settled his wings. "You know as well as I do that the old attitudes haven't gone away. It might have worked between us when we were just a couple of racers, but you're a Prime now. You have an image to uphold, you have responsibilities—"

Rodimus took a step forward, tipped Tracks' face up to his, and kissed him. It was a gentle kiss, but firm enough to stun him into silence. "I don't care what anyone thinks of us," he said, his voice low and rough as he drew back again, searching Tracks' optics.

"You _should_ care," Tracks whispered. "There are… expectations to fulfill, and I can't…" he couldn't bring himself to say it. "Once the Seeker coding emerges, it… it tends to become stronger in subsequent generations."

"Ah." Rodimus' hand glided against the side of Tracks' helm, reverently tracing its contours. "So you're saying that we might have freakish winged offspring."

"Something like that."

"Is that what you want?" Rodimus persisted. "You want to have sparklings?"

"Rod…" Tracks bit his lips, which still burned from Rodimus' kiss. "It's just not a possibility."

"But do you _want_ it?"

Tracks shuttered his optics. He thought of Raoul falling asleep in his front seat at the age of eighteen, his head warm and heavy against Tracks' headrest, and how Tracks had wished in that moment that he could protect him, always. He thought of how Raoul and his mate were now planning to adopt a child of their own, and of how Skylynx's big, warm paws had once sheltered him. "I always have," he admitted.

"Same," Rodimus said. As if it were that simple.

"But that doesn't—"

"Matter?" Rodimus mouth quirked in a half-smile. "It matters to me. Come on." He started up the steps.

"Wait—where are you going?" Tracks demanded.

Rodimus held out a hand out to him. "Come on," he said again. "It's time you came home."

Tracks set his pede on the first step and paused, hating the way his whole frame had begun to tremble. It wasn't that he believed that armed guards would suddenly descend on him. It was the ghosts of his creators standing slightly further up the steps, staring down on him the way they had the day the guards had found him. He'd fought them, shouting his creators' designations, and had made such a racket that they'd eventually turned—mostly, Tracks now thought, because their fancy friends had been watching—only to gaze at him without a flicker of recognition.

"Tracks." Rodimus' voice jolted him from his recollections. "Just look at me."

He was still waiting halfway the steps, hand outstretched. Tracks stiffened his wings against the urge to simply fly away, and started to climb. The ghosts faded as he drew closer, and when Rodimus' large, warm fingers curled around his, the forms of his creators became nothing more than a play of shadows in the dark doorway. That was all they had ever been.

Rodimus gestured to the open doorway. "Show me around?"

"Come in," Tracks invited, trying to quell the nervous revving of his flight engines as he stepped into the lobby, his footsteps echoing on the broken, dusty tiles. There was another fountain here, also long dry, and tattered banners trailing from the graceful, curved staircases that flanked the reception area. Tracks chose the staircase on the right, and led Rodimus to the second floor. "My room's in here," he said as they came to a door at the end of the hallway. It opened onto empty air, and he jumped back. "Well, it _was_ ," he amended. "It was at the top of one of the turrets."

"Must have been nice," Rodimus said, glancing up through the empty doorway as if he was picturing what it might have been like.

"It was," Tracks agreed. "I had a view of everything. It was the perfect room for a young Seeker, though I'm sure my creators never thought about it that way." He led the way back along the hallway, and paused as they came to another set of doors. "This was the grand ballroom."

Rodimus gave a low whistle. "It's still pretty grand."

"Yes," Tracks agreed. "My creators spared no expense in building this place."

The room was cavernous, featuring an enormous bar and seating area on one side, and a stage for musicians on the other. The remainder of the space was open for dancing, with a series of arched doorways that opened onto the wide, sweeping balcony that overlooked the sea. In was, in many ways, not unlike the ballroom at the Polyhex Ritz where Gyro had taken him… when? Just a joor or two earlier? It seemed more like a lifetime.

"Have you ever thought about fixing it up?" Rodimus asked as he wandered into the room, stepping over bits of debris. "It could be beautiful."

"Too many bad memories."

"I understand. Still," Rodimus added, his gaze straying toward the balcony, "it'd be a great place to throw a party."

 _Party._ Tracks glanced at the stage, remembering the band that had been playing at _The Gravity Well_. An idea struck him. "Rod," he said as he followed Rodimus out onto the balcony, "what if we did throw a party? Maybe even a music festival. People would come here from all over Cybertron, and maybe we could get Jazz to come out of hiding long enough to help me organize it, and… well, if we could find a way to persuade your friend that it isn't _charity_ , maybe it would earn enough credits to pay for the medical help that he needs."

Rodimus gazed at him thoughtfully. "That's a lot of maybes," he said, "but Albedo and his trine do like promoting local talent, so this would just be a bigger venue. I'd be willing to bring it up with Jazz. Or you could," he added with a smile, "since I'm pretty sure he's the one who told you where to find me."

Tracks flinched. "He gave me a hint because I said I was worried about you."

"Nah" Rodimus leaned back against the railing, which creaked ominously beneath his weight. He straightened abruptly, his grin unabated. "He told you where to look because he knew I'd want you to find me."

Tracks' faceplates were heating up again. "He… knows?"

"'Course he does. I had to tell _someone_." Rodimus took a step toward him, the moonlight making him look like a huge, matte-black panther. "I'm in love with you, Tracks. Have been since… well, probably since we first met, and that night we spent on the beach was the happiest of my life. If you think I might be the mech who could make _you_ happy, then give me a chance to try. It's all I ask."

It was like a scene from a movie. And yet, when Tracks stepped forward, the crunch of rubble beneath his pedes told him that it was entirely real. "M—me too," he stammered, words escaping him. "To everything you just said. I love you, too."

He meant to reach for Rodimus' hand, but somehow the gesture turned into an embrace. Rodimus' arms wound around him and Tracks found himself stretching on the tips of his pedes, reaching to pull Rodimus down into a kiss that tasted of the wind and the sea, and flooded him with a giddy sense of being on the edge of something new, something that was totally unknown, yet perfect.

"May I have this dance?" Rodimus asked, when they eventually broke apart.

Tracks laughed. "What, you're not just going to throw me down on the sand and have your way with me?"

"There's no sand," Rodimus pointed out. "Maybe later?"

He was swaying against Tracks, moving to a rhythm that seemed familiar the moment Tracks joined in. It wasn't just the throb of their engines, but a pulse that came from a deeper place, from the spark.

"Maybe we don't need sand," Tracks replied. A little while later, he added, "You were right. It was time for me to come home."

And here he was.

* * *

 **AN:** Thanks to Skywinder for suggesting the Latin word "transumo" as a basis for the term I used for an adoptive parent or guardian in this story. I changed it a bit to make it an original word, but that's what it's based on.


End file.
